


The Slave

by I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Blindness, Child Abuse, Dehumanization, Eye Trauma, Fecal Humiliation, Forced Castration, Psychological Torture, Rape Roleplay, Self-Hatred, Severe Torture, Sex Tape Without Consent, Sexual Slavery, Suicidal Desires, Threatening of children, brain washing, graphic depiction of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10051637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning/pseuds/I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning
Summary: Some time ago cynical21's “Five Years” set fire to my brain. I couldn't help but wonder what Xanatos' plans would have looked like had they actually been carried out. I wrote this for me, and for a long time didn't plan on sharing it. Changed my mind. We'll see whether anyone thanks me for that or not.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Five Years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187111) by [cynical21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21). 



> For those of you who are aware of my “Details of Revenge,” this story may feel of a kin, only this story will be very sexually focused. More so than “Or Die Beside Him.” By a lot. Beside Him was trying to remain in good taste. This story, not so much.
> 
> The arguably happy ending is in cynical21's original story. Mine will not have that. It will become ever more increasingly dark, and attempt to wring your heart by the end. Things will not be okay.
> 
> The underage warning does not apply to the main character. “The slave” is an adult and has been for a few years. He is referred to as "the boy" because he looks young.
> 
>  
> 
> There is a good chance you will feel dirty after reading this story. My advice would be to have something else lined up, something you know makes you feel good, so you can move immediately from this to that.

 

 

 

“What is your name?”

He knelt on cold, unforgiving stone.

His head hurt. His heart ached.

And....

And his ass...

He looked down. Found blood on his thighs.

He was naked.

He looked up, trying to see through the bright lights shining white in his eyes.

He found four men, all clothed, looking down at him.

And one teenage boy.

He didn't know who the boy was, but— _but—_

_He did this to me._

The pain in his body.

The fact he was  _here._ Not... somewhere else.

He didn't know  _why._ Didn't know  _how._ Didn't know where he was  _supposed_ to be, had no idea who any of these people  _were—_

“I think we should try again,” one of the men suggested. “Can't hurt.”  
Another looked at him like he'd gone mad. “ _Yes,_ it _can._ We've already hit him with more rounds than any normal human could take. He should be a _vegetable_ by now.”  
They peered at him.

“Hey.” The man who'd last spoken snapped his fingers in his face to demand his attention. “What's your name?”  
He ripped his attention away from the boy, who looked at him with such a neutral expression, and eyes that... those  _eyes..._

“What?”  
His voice sounded foreign in his ears.  _Is this me? What do I look like? What do I sound like? They suggested I am human?_

“Your _name,_ bright-eyes.”

He swallowed hard against a throat that burned, like he'd screamed for a thousand years.

Maybe he had.

He tried to think.

Who  _was_ he?

He—

He  _tried—_

He looked to the boy again—

A terrible, slithering sensation in his mind. He convulsed against it, trying to throw it out, trying to—

Flashes of memory—

Of the boy, driving into him—

It was the  _same._ But to his  _mind._

He raised his hands, feebly trying to defend against it.

The men watched him, curious and clueless.

And then the presence pulled away.

Trembling, freezing, he felt relief, such  _deep_ relief—

The boy's fingers moved. A tiny wave, mostly hidden by his thick black cloak.

The man who wanted to send him under again stirred. “He's ready.”

The other speaker nodded. He took a step closer, into his space. “Do you have a name?”  
“I can't— I don't know—”  
“That's because you _don't_ have one. Do you know why you don't have a name?”  
He shook his head, afraid to make eye-contact with the boy.

“Because you aren't  _worthy_ of a name. You are a slave. Do you understand?”  
Pain. All over his body. Bruises on his arms, on his hips, chafed skin around his ankles... was that a  _collar_ he could feel around his neck?

“I—”  
The man kicked him in the ribs.

He fell, trying to protect himself with swollen, bloody hands from which the fingernails were missing.

“You will soon learn respect,  _slave._ ”

The slave caught sight of the boy's eyes, gleaming with satisfaction.

And then the boy turned and walked away.

Leaving him here.

Alone with the men.

 

* * *

 

The slave sat alone in the dark.

It was always dark now.

Always.

They'd burned his eyes out. Taken hot irons and—

The useless orbs throbbed, and he pressed the palms of his hands against the closed lids. The pressure helped ease a little of the pain.

He didn't know how long it had been. Days. Weeks.

He had no past. The only thing he could remember were vague, terrible impressions of the boy.

But as far as he knew, the boy had never come back.

Shackles came and went, but the collar always remained.

He'd been sold... then again... and again...

He'd been raped even more times.

He fought.  _Every_ time.

They told him it would hurt him. They told him if he just  _submitted,_ he might actually find it  _enjoyable._

But it didn't  _matter_ that he didn't have a name.

It didn't  _matter_ they told him he'd always been a slave and was  _born_ to be one.

It didn't  _matter_ that he had no past. No one who cared.

It just didn't  _matter._

He wasn't going to submit to them.

The slave rebelled.

Always,  _always_ rebelled.

He tried to escape. He tried to kill his captors. He tried throttling one of his abusers with the chains that bound his wrists.

He tried to damage their genitals, when they exposed them to abuse him.

He tried to claw out their eyes.

He drove his teeth so deeply into flesh it tore.

He refused to eat, to drink.

They held him down and gave him nutrient and hydration injections.

He refused to relieve himself.

They chained him to the floor, lying on a sloped surface, caging his cock to his legs for days until he urinated all over himself.

The foul liquid rolled down the incline, up his body, his arms, into his hair.

Only by craning his head did he keep it from his face.

But more time passed...

And his neck muscles could no longer hold him.

So he set his head down.

He didn't try that particular form of defiance again. When they finally allowed him to stand, after days of restriction, he could barely keep to his feet.

He  _did_ refuse to empty his bowels.

So they held him down and gave him enemas until he had no control whatsoever.

The humiliation stayed with him, but resistance was the  _only thing_ he possessed in this place.

He didn't even have a  _name,_ but he had  _defiance._

They castrated him. Thought it would tame him.

Take away the will to fight, along with the self-dignity he seemed to cling to no matter what they did.

It didn't work.

They still couldn't allow themselves to come anywhere near his teeth.

It didn't matter how much they  _beat_ him, how many bones they broke, how much skin they tore away with whips.

He seemed to live for the fight.

He would endure  _breathtaking_ amounts of pain to hold on to his right to defy them in every way possible.

They always made sure he healed. He spent massive amounts of time unconscious in a bacta tank.

They wanted him looking pretty.

He discovered that  _didn't_ mean they wouldn't do horrifying damage to his body.

It just meant they cleaned up afterwards.

And then one day, on his knees, bloody, breathing hard, he heard a sob.

He raised his head. “Who is there?”

“ _This_ is Kem. Say hello, Kem.” The mocking voice of one of his owners.

They wanted him to use the word  _Master._

Like frip.

The word  _Master_ was precious. Beautiful. It would  _never_ apply to them.

They couldn't make him.

He didn't know  _why_ he felt this way.

It was just true.

And it was  _his._

“Kem is here for one reason only, Slave. Every time you defy me, Kem receives a beating. Or Kem goes without dinner. Or Kem sucks my cock.”  
The slave froze.

“Would you look at that. The slave has a heart. Go ahead, Slave, ask Kem how old he is? Tell, him, Kem. How old are you?”

“Nine.”

The slave's heart shattered. “What have they done to you?”  
“You— you disobeyed. So they— hit me. With a big stick. A lot of times.”

The slave couldn't breathe. “Come here,” he whispered.

Light, shuffling footsteps.

“I see with my fingers. Let me see you.”  
The child held still as the slave found his arm, ran his hand up the arm to the shoulder.

Malnourished. Cold.

Very, very afraid.

“Who is he?” the slave asked.

“Street rat orphan.”

The slave inwardly cringed.

His fingers found—

The boy whimpered.

His fingers a ghost, no longer pressing hard enough to cause pain, the slave traced the outline of a massive bruise on his arm, inwardly screaming.

He found the face.

Tears on the lashes, on the cheeks.

“If I do everything you ask, If I don't fight you, will he be fed? Kept safe? Untouched, unharmed?”

“How very clever of you. That's the deal.”

“How will I know—?”

“You won't. But it's a cheep enough bargain for us that it won't cost us anything. So: do you want to risk it's a bluff?”

Kem trembled in terror. His desperation vibrating into the slave's fingers.

“Shhh,” the slave soothed. “Shhh.”

He lifted his head in the direction of the man who owned him. “You have a deal. If I behave very, _very_ exceptionally, may I be allowed to see him on occasion?”  
The man considered it. “I suppose. If you've gone above and beyond. Of course, any time you disobey, you'll have a visit from him. That way you can hear his stomach growling. Feel his pain. Hear all about it.”

The slave nodded. “Understood.”

“Understood,  _Master_ ,” the man corrected.

Everything in him screamed against it.

But he  _had_ to protect this child.

He didn't know why.

But that was as much  _part_ of him as his desire to rebel, and his desire to keep the word  _Master_ sacred.

Actually...

It was  _more_ part of him.

He bowed his head, felt his soul break. “Understood, Master.”  
The man's laughter rang in his ears as Kem was dragged away from him, and the door clanged closed.

 

* * *

 

He hadn't realized it at the time...

But that was the day the slave began to die.

Months later, writhing against synthsilk sheets, moaning in a show of pleasure as a customer slowly rubbed his cock and useless sack, the slave realized he was an empty husk.

He'd done all of this to protect the child.

And according to Kem, it was working.

The slave tried to hold on to his sense of self-worth, of dignity. He was doing it for the  _child._

But against the weight of time...

He'd lost it.

He hated himself.

_Hated._

The man he called Master saw it. Said that the day he tried to harm or kill himself was the day Kem took his place in the bedroom.

So he lived.

They kept his hair carefully trimmed. Short, but with a small tail at the back of his head, and a long braid that fell from behind one ear.

He had deduced over the months that it was the hairstyle of a Jedi.

Whatever those might be.

And many, many people  _hated_ Jedi.

His Master would stroke his head, praise him for bringing in such wonderful prices—

Apparently people would pay  _very well_ to toy with someone who was paraded as a Jedi.

“Am I one?” he'd asked hesitantly once.

His master's laugh had been like a cheese-grater against his soul. “Little gods! The slave wants to know if he's a  _Jedi._ ”

The slave found himself seized by the braid, yanked painfully forward—

He felt his master's hot, sour breath on his face. “You know the answer to that. What are you?”

“I am nothing.”  
“That's right. How can you tell?”

“I don't have a name.”  
“That's right. If you were a Jedi, that would make you a  _person,_ wouldn't it? So, are you a Jedi?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not a person.”

“Good slave.”  
His master released the braid and ran his hand over his head, smoothing the short hair.

And then he fripped the slave.

 

* * *

 

Some people wanted to pretend to seduce the slave.

They wanted to feel the power rush of having convinced a Jedi to have sex with them.

They wanted to pretend he was a person.

They wanted him to pretend he wanted them.

Sometimes they even wanted him to pretend he _loved_ them.

Others wanted to rape him. They wanted him to struggle. They wanted him to scream, to weep.

To beg for forgiveness.

Or...

To beg for _more._

Still others didn't want him sexually at all.

They paid special fees, and had a spotter in the room to make sure they didn't dismember or kill him.

They came to torture him.

To take their hatred of the Jedi out on his flesh.

It killed him that he felt relief when someone wanted him to cuddle them, whisper words he didn't feel.

He despised himself for his weakness.

But life went on. And on.

And on.

And being petted and gently fripped by someone pretending to care...

Or hanging from his wrists as his blood was drained from his body, as he was flogged, as he was beaten to the brink of unconsciousness only to be awakened by drugs to experience it again and again until the customer's time ran out...

_I should be stronger._

It was his job to find out what a customer wanted, and to ensure they gained it.  _I should hate it all equally._

Kem lost some of the gauntness.

Began to feel a little bit closer to normal.

He would kiss the tears from the slave's sightless eyes, whisper apologies...

Sing to him.

The slave would lie on the floor, head in the child's lap, and listen as the young, off-key voice sang song after song.

Those moments, few and far between, were the only ones in which the slave could forget the hatred he felt for himself.

 

* * *

 

Xanatos stared down at the young man presenting for him, beautiful skin marred by horrifying scars.

Qui-Gon would count every one. Would _know._

Xanatos ran his hand down the curve of the slave's ass.

“You will call me Master Xanatos,” he said.

There was no hint of recognition, and in the Force, he could sense the emptiness of the young man's mind.

“As you wish, Master Xanatos.”  
Xanatos shivered.

Yes.

This had been worth the hunt, worth the time and effort and money.

“Do you know why I am here?” Xanatos lightly pressed his fingers beside the young man's hole, watched it pulse with anticipation.

The former padawan gave a silent sigh. Xanatos could sense his resignation. “No, Master Xanatos.”

“A man wronged me, long ago.”

Dread swirled in the boy, though he hid it well from his face. “Was this man a Jedi, Master Xanatos?”  
It was almost too much.

Xanatos roughly pushed him, and he collapsed onto his side. At the light prompts of Xanatos' fingers he rolled onto his back, baring his stomach and spreading his legs.

Making sure the holocam had an unrestricted view, Xanatos crawled up the bed and lightly placed his hand over the unprotected throat. “Yes. Why would you ask something like that?”  
“I am the go-to for those who want to fulfill Jedi fantasies, Master Xanatos. What do you want to do to the man who hurt you, my Master?”

Yes. Definitely too much.

In all the best ways.

Xanatos took a steadying breath. It wouldn't do to consume this too quickly. It needed to be perfect. He wanted to savor every second.

“Do you know what I've done?” Xanatos asked, keeping his hand pressed against windpipe and pulse. “I killed your master. I killed everyone in this place. It's filled with my guards now. We won't be interrupted.”

The beautiful creature trembled, agony and fear spilling from him in the Force. “Kem? Did you kill Kem?”

“Who is Kem?” Xanatos purred.

“A boy— ten years old—”

“Ah. No. He lives.”  
He watched as Qui-Gon's heart struggled to not beg for the child's life.

Watched as he won.

Much of his mind had been stolen, but apparently, he was clever still.

“This is what's going to happen. I am going to hurt you. I will hurt you terribly. You will beg for mercy,  _beg_ for it, and when I am satisfied, I will allow you to die.”

The body stilled beneath his hand.

And then thrummed with hope.

It stole Xanatos' breath.

Little  _gods._ Yes, Qui-Gon. See the gleam in those dead eyes. See the silent gasp of those lips.

See how much he craves death.

“I will do all I can to please you, Master Xanatos,” those sinful lips whispered. “I give myself to you. Do with me what you will.”

Xanatos stifled a groan.

“And... if you are pleased... would you consider releasing Kem? Allowing him to go free?”

Xanatos' breathing hitched.

_Take everything away from you, and what remains?_

The passion to protect people, no matter the cost to himself.

Xanatos had been intending on releasing the child, of course. He had no use for him, and there was no point in killing him.

“If you please me... I will consider it.”

“Thank you, my Master.”

_You will listen to him, Qui-Gon._

_And weep._

_Are you proud of him? Let's make you ashamed._

“Excellent.” Xanatos gave a light squeeze against the pale throat, then dragged his fingertips down the chest. “The man who wronged me? His name is Qui-Gon. When I inflict pain, you will beg Qui-Gon for mercy. You will call him  _Master Qui-Gon_ .”  
“I understand.”

“And if you find yourself in pain you  _cannot_ bear... you will use only one of those names.  _Master_ or  _Qui-Gon,_ instead of both.”

“Yes, Master Xanatos.”

There was no recognition, no knowledge.

It couldn't have been more beautiful if he'd  _planned_ it.

“Will he be seeing this?”

Oh,  _clever,_ clever boy.

“Yes. We are recording. I will send it to him when we are done.”

“Do I look like him?”

“No. You look like the man he loves.”

There was a long moment when the slave said nothing as Xanatos continued to trace his ribs. And then he asked, “Am I this person?”

Xanatos laughed. “Good gods. You think you're important?” He grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged the head back. The slave gasped in pain, and his body twisted—  _so_ beautiful, so  _vulnerable—_ “You think you are  _loved_ ? You are  _nothing._ Your only worth is that you look similar to the one Qui-Gon loves. The resemblance is weak, however, so if you  _push me,_ I will find  _someone else._ I will sell you off and you can continue your life.”

The slave trembled beneath him. “Forgive me, Master Xanatos.”

_I offer him life, and he begs for death. Listen to him, Qui-Gon._

“Who are you?” Xanatos pressed.

“I am nothing. I am a slave.”

“And what is your name?”

“I have no name.”

“Is there anyone who loves you?”

“No.”

“Does Qui-Gon love you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I am worthless.”

“Say it again. Whether Qui-Gon loves you and why.”

“Master Qui-Gon does not love me. I am worthless.”

Perfect.  _Perfect._ Stunningly perfect.

“That's right,” Xanatos crooned. “But for tonight, I will call you  _his_ name. The name of Qui-Gon's love. You will answer to this name.”

“As you wish, Master Xanatos.”

“That's right. Whatever I wish. You will answer to the name  _Obi-Wan Kenobi._ ”

Not even a spark of  _anything._

“Beg me to kill you, Kenobi. Get on your knees and tell me what you want.”  
Lithe, pale muscles drew the younger man to his knees.

Xanatos nudged the holocam so Obi-Wan would be pleading into it.

Qui-Gon would see him on his knees. Kneeling to  _Qui-Gon._

“Call me Master Qui-Gon.”

“Please, Master Qui-Gon. Kill me.  _Please._ ”

“Not good enough. Tell me  _why_ ,” Xanatos directed, out of the cam's viewpoint.

“I am worthless, Master Qui-Gon. Please, have mercy on me and kill me.”  
“Why are you worthless?”

He was fairly certain this was a question that would have been drilled into the slave long before Xanatos found him.

“I am worthless because I am a whore. I have no name. No one loves me. I have no past and no future. I am a thing to be used.”

“What do you want?”

“Death, Master Qui-Gon.  _Please._ ”

“Do you want me to hurt you first?”

The slave shuddered, but knew the plan.

Knew what he could win.

“Master Qui-Gon, hurt me please. Make me bleed. Make me scream your name.  _Please, kill me._ ”  
Xanatos growled low in his throat. He couldn't help it.

And then he was close, grabbing the slave by the chin. “You want to suck my cock, don't you, you little slut?”

“Yes, Master Qui-Gon,” the slave whispered, obedient.

“ _Beg_ me for it.”

“Master Qui-Gon,  _please_ let me suck your cock.”

“And  _then_ what do you want me to do? I saw how tight and needy you are. You want this  _inside_ you, Obi-Wan? You want Qui-Gon's cock fripping you until you can't see straight?”

“Yes, Master.”

“ _Tell_ me.”  
“Master Qui-Gon, I want your cock inside me, I want you to frip me senseless.”

_Kark._ He was so aroused.

Qui-Gon would be so horrified.

_And_ humiliated before the Council.

He'd abandoned an apprentice  _again._

It was about time he faced the consequences.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had saved his  _life_ in that Theed generator complex, and he'd turned his back on him. Rejected him.

Driven him away.

Xanatos couldn't get distracted. There was something he needed to straighten out  _first._

“Do you know who betrayed you?” Xanatos asked.

The slave's breath hitched in fear that he wouldn't be able to find what Xanatos wanted.

That he would fail to release Kem.

“I don't understand, my Master.”  
“Someone handed you over to the slavers. Someone whose only reward for giving you up was that they were allowed to take your virginity, as cruelly as they pleased. Do you remember?”

The trembling grew worse.

“The boy,” the slave whispered. “Before they took my eyes. The teenaged boy. Light hair. Blue eyes. He— he changed the slaver's mind when he waved his hand.”

The terrible fear written all over him—

“He was inside my  _mind—_ ”

No. It  _couldn't_ be.

Xanatos knew it had been someone inside the Order, but this... this would be too  _delicious_ to be true. The galaxy didn't give gifts like this.

“Can you remember his name?” Xanatos urged.

“I— I—” the slave's voice died as he struggled to obey.

_Tried..._ so earnestly...

“Who was he?” the slave asked.

It only took a moment to play a clip of audio Xanatos kept close to him at all times. Not the whole thing... just three seconds.

“Master? Do we go after them?”

The slave reeled backwards, head flying up, shattered eyes wide with terror.

He landed on his back, struggled to pull away, to protect himself, his hands held up in supplication. “Please—  _please—_ ”

“Whatever is the matter?”

“It's  _him—_ it's  _him—_ ”  
“Him who?”

“The one who raped me. First.”

“Was he cruel?”

The expression of agony and terror on his face was answer enough.

“Who is he?” the slave choked.

“Anakin Skywalker.”

 

* * *

 

Qui-Gon turned,  _trying_ to comprehend—

He stared at Anakin with wide eyes.

The boy ran.

It was Mace who caught him before he reached the door, dragging him back to where the holo played.

It was a recording, not live. The techs were trying to find out  _where_ it had been created, but that would take time—

Qui-Gon could find no clues in the room himself, not that he could focus well on the  _room_ when—

“I have a game for you, Kenobi. I want you to show me what it was like that first time.”

“I— I don't remember. They— I can't remember  _anything,_ from before. I just  _know—_ ”

“Your body remembers, though your mind does not,” Xanatos soothed. “It's fine. We'll just pretend it's that first time. You've never been touched before. Not by a man, not by a woman— and you don't  _want_ to be touched now. Beg Anakin for mercy. Pretend, for a moment, that you know him.”

Xanatos seized his ankles and dragged him to the foot of the bed.

“Anakin—! Anakin, what are you  _doing_ ?” Obi-Wan gasped.

Mace's fingers dug deeper into the real culprit's shoulder.

Qui-Gon tried to remember how to breathe.

“Come here, you filthy slut.” Xanatos morphed his voice into an Outer Rim accent. He twisted Obi-Wan's legs, rolling him onto his stomach, then yanking his thighs apart.

“No, no  _please,_ Anakin— please  _no—_ ”

“Command him,” Xanatos whispered, calling a jar to his hand with the Force.

“Anakin  _stop._ Let  _go_ of me!” Obi-Wan kicked out at Xanatos.

Qui-Gon's older former apprentice grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm into a lock behind his back. At first Obi-Wan struggled, and then he cried out in pain.

He went limp to try to escape it.

For a long moment Xanatos refused to relent, smiling at Obi-Wan's fevered gasps.

And then he let go, and, swiping his fingers through the lube, massaged Obi-Wan's entrance.

“ _Anakin_ !  _Please_ !”

“Please  _what_ ? Please, you want my cock?”  
“No,  _no—_ ”

“Yes, you do. It's all you're good for. Taking cock. Isn't that what you were setting yourself up for, with my mentor? It's the only thing you're good for. You failed your teacher, you failed  _everyone_ , and now we all see what you were made for.”

Obi-Wan's breath hitched as Xanatos' preparations brushed his prostate. “I—  _I_ —”

“All my Master talks about is  _you_ ! He doesn't see  _anything_ I do!”

Qui-Gon stared, frozen in horror—

And then Xanatos was lining himself up—

“ _Stop!_ ” the terror, the fury in Obi-Wan's voice. “ _Anakin—!_ ”

And then Xanatos was sheathed inside him.

Obi-Wan's scream tore open Qui-Gon's heart.

The thrashing stilled, and Obi-Wan lay so very still, quivering, bent over the edge of the bed—

Terrified to move, knowing the pain would grow  _worse—_

But Xanatos only permitted it for a moment. And then he was driving into him, a ruthless, cruel rhythm.

Obi-Wan sobbed, his thin shoulders shuddering, cries of agony escaping him as he pleaded—

No longer in terror, or horror, or anger—

Just broken desperation to be released from his tormentor.

“ _Please,_ ” he begged.

“Yes,  _beg_ me,” hissed Xanatos. “ _Beg me,_ Kenobi!”

Obi-Wan bit his lip and closed his eyes against the hell.

“ _Beg me_ !” Xanatos screamed, striking him across the kidneys.

Obi-Wan gasped, whole body seizing in excruciating pain—

Xanatos keened as that clenched Obi-Wan's warmth around him.

He came.

And then he pulled himself out.

Qui-Gon watched in mute horror as come slid down Obi-Wan's thighs, leaking from the now-gaping orifice.

“Not as tight now as you were then.” Xanatos pulled him upright, held the boy's back against his body, settled one hand over his throat, and allowing the other to trace downwards. “I wonder if Qui-Gon knew Kenobi was a virgin.  _Did_ you know that, Qui-Gon? Saving himself for you.”

Xanatos looked back at the cam, and to Qui-Gon's utter devastation, managed to look straight into his old master's eyes.

“You were so tight, so  _ready_ for him. Weren't you, Kenobi.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan whimpered as Xanatos' fingers closed around his length.

But instead of caressing Obi-Wan, the fist tightened,  _tightened—_

Obi-Wan's face twisted in shock, then discomfort, then unspeakable pain—

His body curled forward, but Xanatos's hand on his throat refused to allow it—

Obi-Wan's thighs trembled and he wheezed, unable to breathe—

“Do you think you deserve pleasure,  _slave_ ?”  
“N-no, Master—”

“I'm Qui-Gon again.”

“Master Qui-Gon.”

“Do you think I could  _want_ you, after everything that you've  _done_ ?”

Obi-Wan's open mouthed gasping for air stilled as he whispered, “No.”  
“What was that? I couldn't hear you. Speak up, whore. Could Qui-Gon want you, after everything that's been done to you?”

“ _No,_ ” Obi-Wan choked, louder this time.

Xanatos released both hands, and Obi-Wan collapsed forward onto the edge of the bed.

“I have something here—” Xanatos reached to something outside the pickup range of the holo.

Soon Obi-Wan was writhing in pain from an unseen source, shuddering, quaking— he fell to the floor—

It released him just long enough to drag in a stunned breath when it hit again.

This time he screamed.

And then he didn't stop.

His bladder voided. His eyes watered.

He drooled into the carpet as he thrashed, eyes rolling up in his head and his voice stuttering.

“ _Qui-Gon—_ ”

The word was so mangled, it could barely be made out—

“ _Please._ ”

Anakin, behind him, was meaningless to Qui-Gon Jinn. So were all the other Jedi seeing this— the techs trying to save Obi-Wan, Mace, Yoda—

Even Xanatos had no real meaning.

Obi-Wan,  _his Obi-Wan,_ was in agony.

His heart couldn't hold out against such sensory input for long.

It  _would_ give in.

_No, hold on,_ please  _hold on!_ his own heart screamed to the recording.  _I will find you. I will save you, like you saved me— I'm_ sorry—

He'd been wrong.

He saw it so clearly now.

What had he been  _thinking_ ?

“ _Master—_ ”

Mace Windu had loved the young man. Had watched with envious eyes—

_But I turned him away. I drove him away._

This powerful, beautiful man.

Who now lay so broken on the floor of a brothel where he was sold not only for sex, but for nonsexual torture as well.

_What have I done?_

The cruelty carried on for  _so_ long.

And then the slight buzzing silenced.

Obi-Wan's voice had long since burned out. His shattered gasps were all that interrupted the stillness. Qui-Gon held his breath as Xanatos drew the hovering droid away from the bed and spoke directly into it.

“I think you want to go have a look at the front steps of your Temple, Qui-Gon. I left a present for you.”

“Did I please?” The fear in Obi-Wan's now-hoarse voice twisted Qui-Gon's soul.

But what hurt worse was the  _hope._

What Obi-Wan was afraid of was  _not_ death.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Xanatos crooned, looking over at the floor, now just out of cam range. “You were spectacular.”

The holo winked out.

“No.  _No—_ ” Qui-Gon lunged for the door.

The others, Mace and Anakin included, followed him to the front steps of the Temple.

There, curled up in the center of them, lay a naked figure.

Qui-Gon raced down to it, seeing auburn hair, a gaunt body twisted with scars, so many scars, and pale as a sheet.

He knelt on the steps just below his apprentice and tilted the face up, afraid of hurting him more, of—

Black, burned eyes stared past him.

A scream tore its way from Qui-Gon's throat. He desperately gathered the body up, clutching it close. “ _No. No._ ” He sobbed, rocking as he keened. “ _Obi-Wan._ ”

He didn't see the tiny figure crouched nearby, silently weeping.

But fortunately for Kem, other Jedi  _did._

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I will know  _everything_ .” Qui-Gon leveled a brokenhearted stare at the Healer.

The woman nodded, and led him into the room.

They were alone with the body.

The body that lay naked and uncovered on the cold, metal table. Staring up at the ceiling beneath the bright lights.

“I'm not entirely sure where to start,” the Healer admitted. “He has been brutally misused. For a long time. I recorded every evidence of bone breakage. His bones have been broken and re-set countless times. He's been flogged, cut with knives, there is evidence of strangulation that left scars, but didn't kill him. His eyes... appear to have been damaged by hot metal. Intentionally. He's been gelded. Starved.”

As Qui-Gon watched her point out the scars and evidences as she named them, tears slipped from his eyes. Silent, scalding.

“I have found evidence of stabbing wounds that healed, and there were several drugs in his system, some that likely had worn off before Xanatos found him, but traces still remained in his bloodstream. Drugs to lower his pain threshold, drugs to confuse his sense of time, drugs to weaken his will, and drugs to— counteract his loss of testosterone. None of them were fresh enough for DuCrion to have injected them himself.”

“What killed him?”

“A single, precise blow to the solar plexus. A blunt object with enough force. His heart just stopped.”

“How badly did Xanatos hurt him?”

“The techniques he used left no marks. Presumably so you could see everything that had been done before he ever arrived. I have no doubt Obi-Wan suffered excruciatingly, but we have nothing to show for it.”  
Qui-Gon bit his lip. “How many times could that have been done _before_? We can see what left marks, but what about what _didn't_?”  
The Healer shook her head. “We don't know from looking at him. Xanatos' seed is still inside him—”

“Get it  _out_ ,” Qui-Gon snarled.

“—and it's clear he took the time and effort to stretch Obi-Wan properly beforehand. No tears. Given the holo, I doubt that was out of consideration— and it was in direct contradiction to his role-play. I can only conclude it was so we could see the evidence of past tearing. Extensive. Very extensive.”

“I want him clean of Xanatos' filthy touch,” Qui-Gon murmured, voice rough with pain.

“There is one last thing.” The Healer gently rolled the body over, revealing the terrible destruction wrought across its back.

Qui-Gon gasped at the sight.

The lighting in Obi-Wan's room had been very poor. So much of this had been hidden—

But the Healer drew his attention to the expanse between the shoulder blades.

To the two letters carved into flesh. Old scars.

“These happened somewhere around the time of his disappearance.”

_Aurek_ .

_Senth._

Anakin Skywalker.

Qui-Gon turned away and tottered for the door.

“Qui-Gon?”

He couldn't respond. Couldn't answer.

Instead, he barely reached the exit.

His dragging feet tripped on the doorsill—

Mace caught him as he fell.

And for a long moment, the silver-haired Jedi Master simply wept in his friend's arms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Away to the fluff, with you!


End file.
